


Lovers' Day

by Res



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot, Romance, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-02
Updated: 2005-01-02
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/164960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Res/pseuds/Res
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frodo Baggins gets courted on Lovers' Day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lovers' Day

**Author's Note:**

> Very big, huge, *ENORMOUS* thank yous to lj user timberwolfoz for all of her help, encouragement, support, and cheering. *Never, ever* would have been done without you! Thank you, also, to lj user not_fledged_yet, lj user timberwolfoz and my father for the creation of the holiday of Renewal and its component days. The 'Cerulean Blue Eyes' mention was just to prove to lj user timberwolfoz that I could do it and make it look good. *grin* Kind of. Maybe. Beta thanks to lj user jennaria and any errors are my own entirely!  
> Disclaimer: Frodo, Sam, Marigold, et al, belong to JRR Tolkien, and he's amazing. I only borrowed them, briefly.
> 
> Edit Notes (3/3/06): This story just made it past the Quarter Finals for the Mithril Awards!  
> Edit Notes (9/2/06): This story just made it to the FINALS for the Mithril Awards!

Frodo Baggins stared at the flower on his pillow. It was a spring daisy, its petals a starburst of brilliant white in the lamp light, shading to a pale pink against the bright yellow center. Where had it come from? He hadn't had any guests today, and his manservant (and best friend) Samwise Gamgee had left before dawn that morning for Hardbottle, in the South Farthing, off to help his uncle with the spring breeding. Frodo expected him to be gone for the best part of a week.

Carefully, Frodo picked the daisy up and admired the soft petals, brushing it under his nose to catch the subtle scent. It was lovely -- perhaps Sam's sister, Marigold, had placed it there, when she had changed the bedding and gathered up the laundry to wash earlier in the day. That had to have been it. Frodo nodded to himself, satisfied with the thought. Marigold had placed it on his pillow to cheer up the room, when she'd come in to gather the laundry for the weekly washing. Probably she'd found a patch of them on the way up Bagshot Row -- there certainly were enough places for them to spring up every year along the hillside. A bit early yet, but daisies were hardy flowers. And trust a Gamgee to find them this early in a year!

Gently setting the flower aside, Frodo prepared for bed, slipping off his clothing and into a fresh nightshirt, laid out and waiting for him. The cloth had a subtle scent of cedar and lavender, gathered into its folds and weave from the sachets placed in his drawers to keep the moths and vermin out of the fine fabrics. Sam's work, that -- every spring, Sam would cut the fresh cedar tips from the trees, tender and full of green sap and scent, and every summer Sam would harvest the young lavender flowers when they were freshest and full of fragrance. At Year's End, every year, Sam would make new sachets out of the carefully dried cedar boughs and lavender flowers and tuck them into his master's bureau drawers, hang them in his closets, and hide them in his clothes presses, chests, and linen cupboards. Frodo's clothing and linens now had a fresh, sweet scent about them no matter what time of year it was, and he hadn't had to replace a moth-eaten vest or mouse-chewed blanket yet.

Stepping over to the fireplace, Frodo carefully banked up the coals against the night and readied fresh tinder and kindling for the morning. With Sam gone to Hardbottle, he'd have to start up his own fire tomorrow, if he wanted to dress warm. Carefully, he cracked the curtains of the window by his bed, just so, so that the morning light would fall in and wake him without letting the night steal too much heat from the window glass until then. Moving to the clothes press at the foot of the bed, he pulled out fresh clothing for the morrow, and laid it on the chair by the fire. Then he slipped into bed and settled back on the plumped pillows for a bit of reading before sleep.

***

A cool shaft of pale morning light poured slowly through the curtains to lightly caress the dark, tousled curls of the sleeping Hobbit, picking out bright threads of red and gold amongst the brown. Unhurriedly, carefully, the finger of light crept down the soft pillow to tickle at dark eyelashes and warm the sleepy nose into a soft murmur of protest. Blue-pale lids tightened and scrunched down over waking eyes, as soft white fingers rose to protect them from the weak morning light before Frodo finally turned his face away with a drowsy mumble. He yawned and stretched, smiling slightly as the warm air of the room slid down under the covers and the cheery crackle of the fire welcomed him to the new day.

After a moment, Frodo frowned, opening his eyes to peer around the room in confusion. Warm? Fire? He blinked dazedly at the fire popping merrily in the hearth, rubbing the sleepy blur from his eyes before looking again, and then sitting up in mild alarm. The tinder and kindling he'd set out the night before was gone, and the fire had been stoked up and fed until it was warming the room quite nicely. His clothing, left folded on the chair the night before, was now hanging from the back of the chair, unfolded and warming the creases out. A kettle of water hung, steaming, from the hook in his mantle, and a tea cup was set out on the table by his bed, a strainer of dry leaves resting across its lip. The book he'd fallen asleep reading was carefully set next to the tea cup, the daisy's stem tucked inside, apparently marking his place.

"Sam?"

His voice almost seemed to echo around the cheerily empty room. There was no answer. Frodo snorted to himself as he realized what he'd done. Of course there was no answer. Shaking his head, Frodo slipped out of the bed and padded across the warm floorboards to the fireplace. Taking up a handkerchief to use as a potholder, he lifted the steaming kettle and poured the water over the tea, smiling as he realized there was already a dollop of honey resting in the bottom of the cup, ready to dissolve in the hot water.

Turning to the wash basin on his dresser, Frodo poured the rest of the water into it before replacing the kettle on its hook by the fire. Picking up the pitcher of cool water next to the basin, he tempered the hot water carefully, and then picked up a rag to wash with. He slipped out of his nightshirt and tossed it aside, toward the bed, and dipped a corner of the rag into the warm water. Rubbing it lightly across a thin, well-used cake of grey soap he pulled from a drawer, Frodo began to scrub his throat and chest, under his arms and down his belly. Dipping the rag into the water again, Frodo carefully washed himself from ear-tip to toe-tip, and then used a fresh corner of the rag to rinse the soap off before toweling himself dry and dressing in the clothing warming by the fire.

Dragging a comb briskly through his dark curls, Frodo checked himself in the mirror, and then picked up his cup of tea. With a practiced flick of his wrist, he sent the used tea leaves into the fire where they sizzled and popped in the coals before burning with a fragrant smoke. Carrying the tea strainer, Frodo sipped his tea and made his way into the kitchen to fix some breakfast for himself.

He was only mildly surprised to find the fire blazing in the kitchen as well, with another kettle steaming over it, and a fresh loaf of crusty bread sitting on the kitchen table, a crock of cool butter next to it, as well as a pot of his favorite plum preserves. Sam must have made arrangements for Marigold to come up and care for him, he mused. That was the only explanation he could think of...but, where was Marigold, then? He shrugged to himself and picked up a knife to cut into the bread, pausing as he spotted the flower resting between the butter crock and the loaf, half hidden by the pot of preserves.

Another daisy, this one just opening its bud, the white petals still liberally streaked with pale pink and the yellow center touched with fresh green. Gently, Frodo picked up the daisy and examined it, a faint smile touching his lips as he turned it to and fro. An interesting touch, the flowers, he thought. He set the daisy aside and cut the bread, a nice, thick slice, delighted to find the loaf still fresh and hot enough to steam slightly in the morning air. Spreading a liberal scoop of butter and another of preserves across it, he sighed in pleasure as he bit into the tasty fare. He would have to remember to thank Marigold for her thoughtfulness -- and Sam as well! -- for surely she must have had to get up extra early to come up to Bag End and care for him before starting her own day.

Finishing off a second thick slice of bread, Frodo poured a new cup of tea and cut a third slice to take with him into his study as he started his day's work.

Settling at his desk, sharpening his quills and pulling out his papers, Frodo quickly dove into the intricate world of legalities, research, translations and transcriptions that took up most of his day.

***

With a yawn and a blink, Frodo abruptly came back to the Here and Now. Setting his quill gently aside, he corked the inkpot and quickly examined the document in front of him, even as he rose to answer the knock at the door that had caused him to surface from his intent focus. Making note of where he'd left off, Frodo moved quickly toward the hall, stretching and yawning, then rubbing at a cramp in his hand before reaching out to open the green door that opened onto his front step.

Frodo frowned at an ink stain on his fingers as he pulled the door open, and then jumped back in surprise as a huge bundle of white cloth suddenly moved forward through the door towards him. "Oh, thank'ee, Mister Frodo!" it exclaimed breathlessly, in a high feminine voice. "I bain't be knowin' what I'd've done if'n ye wasn't home. I stumbled on t'walk an' t'load shifted on me -- I was 'fraid I'd drop't!"

Frodo caught at the bundle as it tipped forward with a squeak, and balanced it until the Hobbit lass holding it had shifted her grip. "Thank'ee again, Mister Frodo. 'M sorry 's so late t'day -- Farmer Goodberry's wife went int' labor last night. Rosie Cotton, Daisy an' I been over t' help out, what with them having t'five babies already an' all. Twins it was, an' one of them come breeched. Farmer Goodberry had t' send off t' Frogmorton for t'midwife, an' her cart broke an axle coming 'cross t'Bywater." Marigold Gamgee chattered on breathlessly as she hurried the bundle down the hall to the linen closet. "I spent all night there, I did, an' Daisy come in first thing this morning. Rosie's mam sent her up with soup about midnight, an' then again this morning just after second breakfast with some nice pasties an' scones. Ma Goodberry's fine, an' so are t'new littles, but t'midwife thought it was touch an' go for a bit there. Kept us all hopping, it did, last night an' this morning. I done brought t'laundry, soon's I could, though." Marigold paused for a breath, tossing her darkly wheaten curls back and tucking a few stray strands behind her ears before smiling at Frodo's faintly dazed expression. "You feelin' a'right, Mister Frodo? You look a bit pale, there...."

Frodo swallowed and took a breath, then smiled, "No, Marigold, I'm fine. Just a bit surprised, is all. I thought the Goodberry's child wasn't due for a week or so...?"

"Yessir, y'are right," Marigold folded and tucked and sorted the linens away as she chattered, barely pausing for breath as she worked. Frodo felt breathless just listening to her. "But t'midwife, she said...."

By the time Marigold left, Frodo had learned everything the midwife had said, as well as when every new baby was due this spring. He'd learned more than he wanted to know about breech-born babes, and he'd definitely learned too much about the cleaning up from such births. He'd also learned that Marigold was fancying young Tom Cotton -- and Frodo felt a bit of amused pity for Tom, for surely, he was as good as caught if Marigold was set on him.

But it was her parting comments that set him to thinking as he returned to his work. "Good luck for t'Goodberrys, don't you think? T' have t'twins born on Gardeners' Day. Brings luck to t'crops, they say!"

Shaking his head, he settled back on his stool and looked over the parchment in front of him as he uncorked the ink pot and set it in the well. Reaching for his quill, eyes still intent on his page, he dipped the quill into the ink and...blinked at the ink-blackened end of a daisy stem. Carefully, he opened his hand to look at the flower cupped within, petals slightly crushed and creased from his grip and then he looked up at the cup that held his writing quills. Six new, crisp and -- carefully setting the inked daisy aside to where it would not drip on his document, Frodo pulled a quill out and examined it -- perfectly sharpened writing quills had replaced his old pens.

Gardeners' Day. Daisies. The quills, the bread, the tea, the fire.... Frodo frowned, thoughtfully. It appeared someone was courting him...but who? Marigold had been at the Goodberrys all night and all morning, by her own admission. Sam was off to Hardbottle...if it wasn't Sam and it wasn't Marigold...who had been in his home? Daisy Gamgee? No, he thought, rejecting that idea as soon as it had formed. Daisy was courting -- and being courted by -- Meribrand Tumble. Quite seriously, judging by how Frodo had nearly tripped over the pair of them at the Imbolc celebrations a fortnight ago. He fully expected them to be wed by Lithe -- and the child to be born by Yule.

So, who was it? He'd completely forgotten that the Renewal holiday started today -- that today was Gardeners' Day, tomorrow was Stock Day, and the day after...Lovers' Day.

Tradition held that would-be lovers began courting their chosen ones with gifts and services on Gardeners' Day. If the suitor was shy, they could court in secret, with anonymous gifts on Gardeners' Day. If their advances were not rebuffed, the courting continued on Stock Day, with the gifts and services becoming more intimate, and, if the courting was accepted, on Lovers' Day a pledge was made. For some, it was a wedding pledge, for others just a pledge of courting, of getting to know one another, but always a love pledge. Older couples often renewed their pledges on Lovers' Day, as well.

But, who would be courting Frodo Baggins?

***

Blinking in the fading light, Frodo arched his back and sighed, then rubbed at a cramp in his writing hand. Carefully pushing the most recent page aside, he stood up and stretched, reaching for the ceiling and then twisting his shoulders to work out the cramps that came from a day hunched over a writing desk. With a sigh, he picked up his tea cup and made his way into the kitchen, only realizing he'd eaten nothing all day when he saw the daisy lying, forgotten, on the kitchen table. Someone had cleaned up after him, he noticed, putting away the bread, butter and preserves and washing up the few utensils he had used. Peering out the kitchen window, he shook his head at the darkness -- it must be well past supper, he thought, ruefully. Without Sam around to remind him, he tended to lose track of time.

Setting his tea cup in the kitchen's wash basin, Frodo turned to slice some bread, thinking to toast up a few slices before bed; perhaps he might toast a bit of cheese with it as well. He wasn't particularly hungry -- he found, if he'd managed to miss enough meals in a row, that hunger went away fairly quickly, whether he'd eaten or not -- but he thought he should eat something anyway. He could almost hear Sam scolding him. _"You've got t'eat, Mister Frodo. You're naught but skin and bones as it is!"_ He smiled. Where would he be without Sam to watch out for him?

Right where he was now, he mused, still smiling. A hungry Hobbit, who'd not had but three slices of bread and a few cups of tea all day. Disgraceful, that was. Frodo chuckled to himself. Stepping over to the fire, he bent to stoke it up, then paused. There was a pot of liquid simmering over the coals. A quick stir with the ladle revealed a thick barley soup, heavily laden with peas and carrots and bits of meat. Frodo's mouth watered and his stomach abruptly woke up as the scent wafted past his nose. It smelled fantastic, thick and rich and oh-so-tasty.

Frodo gave the soup another stir and then went to the cupboard to pull out a large mug to serve it up in. Lifting down his favorite blue mug, he was somehow not surprised to find another daisy tucked carefully into the glazed well -- though he was mildly surprised to find, also, a generous piece of caramel, carefully wrapped in a twist of waxed paper, tucked in with the flower. His favorite sweet. Whomever was courting Frodo Baggins knew the quarry well.

But who was it? Frodo carefully put the caramel on the table, next to the two daisies, and served up a mugful of soup for himself before settling at the kitchen table to eat it. Only the fire lit the kitchen, making it a warm, dark place, good for thinking serious thoughts as the soft orange light flickered around him. Who would be courting Frodo Baggins?

Frodo sighed, frowning thoughtfully as he considered. None of the lasses he knew had ever looked twice at him -- he was slender, he was delicate, he was pale and small, and he knew it. The work of a scholar kept him indoors, out of the sun, and lifting books was nothing compared to lifting bales of hay, or barrels of ale, or bags of grain. Driving a pen was not nearly as physically demanding as driving a plow, although both had equally important tasks to do in the community, Frodo believed wholeheartedly. But hands stained with ink just never seemed to earn the respect or attraction that hands stained with soil did, among the lasses of Hobbiton and Bywater. And the lads.... Well. Lad and lad pairings were not unheard of, nor were they particularly frowned upon, but the lads were even harder to impress than the lasses, it seemed, and, eventually, Frodo had just given up. No one ever seemed to care about Frodo Baggins, one way or the other, so, finally, Frodo Baggins stopped looking for someone to care about.

Until now.

Frodo suddenly found himself wanting a glass of wine. Or two. Or possibly three.... Ruefully, he grinned to himself and got up to put the now-empty mug into the wash basin with the used tea cup. Carefully, he lowered the pot of soup into the coals and fit the lid tightly onto it, banking the coals against the cast iron to keep the soup warm through the night. After checking to see that the wood box and water barrel were full (and completely unsurprised, but vaguely flattered to find they were), Frodo scooped up the caramel in one hand, and the daisies in the other and carried them with him to his bedroom, pausing in the study only long enough to gather up the ink-stained daisy, and to blow out the lanterns and bank the fire there.

Blowing out most of the hall lights as he went, Frodo made his way to his bedroom, pausing in the doorway to blow out one last candle before entering. Turning to the room, he blinked, looked...and blinked again. Slowly, he stepped into his bedroom, staring around himself in wonder. His bed was made and turned back, the handle of a warming pan just peeking out from under the covers. A fresh nightshirt was laid out, draped across the end of the bed nearest the fire. His book was set, just so, on the table next to the bed, place still marked, but now by a scrap of fine ribbon he recognized from Yule, last seen wrapped around a favorite gift. The morning's daisy rested on top of the worn leather cover. Next to it, the lamp was lit, reflector pointed towards his bed, just the way he liked it for reading. His wood box was full, tinder and kindling laid out, and a kettle was steaming on the hearth. A scented candle was burning on the mantel, filling the room with the scents of bayberry and cinnamon, his favorite. He smiled as he saw a fresh daisy curled perkily into a ring around the fat green column of the candle. His admirer had a sense of humour, it seemed.

Moving into the room, he set the other daisies and his caramel by his book, and then picked up the mug, set out and ready by the hearth, and poured the contents of the kettle into it, pleasantly surprised to find mulled wine instead of the tea he was expecting. Blowing on it, and then sipping, he smiled and relaxed, shoulders slowly easing back as tension he hadn't realized he was carrying melted away. With a sigh, he eased into the armchair by the fire and put his feet up, gazing into the fire while he enjoyed the strong spicy-tart taste of the warmed wine.

The dancing flames were hypnotic and soothing, and Frodo soon found himself nodding where he sat. With a jaw-cracking yawn, he set his mug aside and prepared for bed, pulling out fresh clothing for the morrow and setting it in his chair. Piling his worn clothing into the hamper by the door, he slipped into his nightshirt and banked the fire for the night. Finding the curtains already prepared for the morning, Frodo blew out the candle on the mantle and then shifted the warming pan out of his bed and emptied it into the fire. Hanging the pan from its hook by the hearth before climbing into the warm, welcoming sheets of his bed, Frodo picked up his book for a bit of reading before sleep.

***

The rhythmic patter of raindrops slowly intruded on Frodo's dreams, first as a rush of waves upon sand, then, gradually, into a soft trickling of water seeping through the grass above and beside his window, and drumming against his windowpane as the wind gusted merrily. With a protesting murmur, Frodo burrowed deeper into his blankets, hiking the covers up and around his ears in an instinctive attempt to retreat from the wet weather.

The sizzling snap of a log breaking open in the hearth sent Frodo bolt upright in the bed, gasping. Hand over his heart, as if to slow its anxious racing, Frodo stared about his room frantically for a moment, then relaxed, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he recognized his surroundings. After a moment, he frowned, then opened his eyes and looked again, gazing around the room, trying to place what had caught his attention. A fire was merrily burning on the hearth again, with a steaming kettle once more hanging from its hook over the fire. His clothing was hanging from the chair, turned toward the fire to warm the creases out, again, and the cup was sitting on his bedside table, ready for his morning tea. The room was much as it had been the previous morning, Frodo noted, save that all of the daisies were now collected into a mug of water sitting by his reading lamp.

All of the daisies, that is, save one. Frowning thoughtfully, Frodo eased out of his bed and crossed to his dresser. Sitting atop the dresser, carefully placed in front of his mirror, was a beautiful, carved, cherry wood comb. A fresh daisy was entwined within its polished teeth, the graceful ivory of its petals setting off the elegant red wood beautifully. The spine of the comb was carved with a multitude of blooms, each carefully rendered in exquisite detail without being so refined as to be delicate or overly feminine in appearance. Gingerly, Frodo put out his hand and stroked the silky wood, running his finger along the row of primroses that adorned one end. The petals appeared rough, harsh to the touch, but were, in fact, quite beautifully rounded to his finger, and comfortable to hold.

Hesitantly, Frodo picked up the comb and untangled the daisy from the red teeth, setting it aside for the moment as he tried the comb out on his unkempt, morning curls. It slid comfortably through the tangles, gentle in his hand and easy to use, and he smiled. Finishing with his hair, Frodo quickly poured his tea and left it to steep as he poured his washing water, tempering the hot water with cool from the pitcher on his dresser. Pulling out a fresh cloth, Frodo stripped off his nightshirt and then reached into the top drawer for his soap. He paused as his hand encountered an unfamiliar shape in his soap box, lifting it out slowly. His old soap was gone; in its place he found a brand new ball of white soap, lightly flecked with green leaves and oatmeal, soft and silky with oils, and scented lightly with mint. He smiled softly, lifting the ball up to his face with both hands and smelling it, before soaping up with a sigh of pleasure.

Finishing his morning ablutions, Frodo dressed in the warm clothing set out for him and picked up his tea, flicking the used leaves into the fire. Dressed, clean, and now wide awake, he made his way to the kitchen, noticing this morning how the hall lights were all lit, with fresh, tall candles in each lamp. Their cheery light was a pleasant contrast to the grey light that washed through the rain-splattered windows at the end of the hallway. The kitchen was also warmly lit by candles and a roaring fire, and Frodo paused a moment at the door to enjoy the warmth. A pair of seedcakes, and a plate of freshly-crisped bacon were sitting on the table, next to a jug of milk freshly brought in from the rain by the water drops beading down its side, an empty bowl and a clean mug. Just behind the milk was the honey pot, and a plate with slices of bread, ready for toasting or dipping in sops. Another daisy was laid beside the repast, twined into the fork tines, bud resting in the bowl of the spoon. Stepping further into the room, Frodo spotted a small pot of porridge warming on the hearth, next to the pot of soup from the night before.

Setting his tea on the table, Frodo took up the empty bowl and spooned out a serving of porridge for himself. Mixing a healthy dollop of honey into the porridge, Frodo poured a splash of cream from the top of the milk into it, then poured out a mugful of milk to drink. Untwining the daisy from the fork, he speared a slice of bacon and bit into it with pleasure, then took a bite of hot porridge, smiling as he enjoyed the meal down to the last bite.

Saving the seedcakes for last, Frodo used the last bite of bread to wipe his porridge bowl clean, then put the dishes into the wash tub. Carrying the jug of milk to the pantry, he carefully covered it with a cloth and set it into the coolest corner of the earthen room, next to the butter and eggs. Returning to the kitchen, he made up a fresh pot of tea, scooped up his seedcakes and headed for his study to resume his work from the day before, belly full and heart content.

***

A harsh clatter broke his concentration, pulling him up and out of the legalities of Baggins properties and rents. Frodo frowned, straightening slowly and rubbing at a cramp in his writing hand as he listened, trying to identify the noise. A quick glance out the window in front of him showed the rain slacking off somewhat, and that the morning was still young yet. The clatter sounded again, driving Frodo up and out of his chair and into the hallway, following the noise toward the kitchen. It sounded as if someone was pounding on his kitchen window.... Frowning in confusion, Frodo made his way into the kitchen, and pulled up short, staring in surprise.

The table was set and filled with food. Tossed eggs, and toasted bread. Crisped bacon, and fresh muffins with butter and jam. Hot tea, a mug of fresh milk, and a small cup of water, set next to a plate full of spiced and fried potato slices. A mug of barley soup finished off the meal, steaming from its place next to the scones. A fresh daisy topped the whole off, resting cheerfully on the empty plate sitting amidst the bounty, waiting for Frodo to come fill it with his second breakfast.

 _I'll never finish all of that!_ Frodo thought, somewhat awed by the meal set before him. The last time he'd seen so much food set out was when his cousins were visiting. Sam had spent all morning in the kitchen, then, just to feed the pair of them, and even so Pippin had complained he was still hungry. Frodo shook his head in wonder as he eased closer to the table. Admittedly, Pippin was a growing young hobbit, but, still...there was no way he, Frodo, was going to be able to eat all that!

Half an hour later, Frodo pushed back from the table with a sigh, draining the last bit of milk from his mug and surveying the ruins before him with somewhat bemused surprise. Carefully stacking empty dishes, he placed the single remaining slice of fried potato with the half of a muffin that was left and carried the dirty tableware to the washing basin. Stacking the dishes and silver in the basin, he poured hot water over them and left them to soak as he finished clearing the table, putting the butter and jam away and freshening his tea.

Scooping up the daisies his suitor had left, Frodo returned to his bedroom to put them in the mug of water with the other daisies. He paused, running his fingers through their soft, cool petals, and smiled wistfully. There were so many of them now...the first from his pillow, the second from breakfast the day before. The third came with the new quills, its petals still slightly creased where his hand had closed around it, and the fourth had been with the caramel. The fifth was still curly in the stem from being bent around the candle last night, and the sixth was the one he'd found in the comb this morning. The seventh and eighth he slipped into the mug and arranged among the others carefully, then reached to smooth a crease in the petal of one of the others. His gaze sharpened with interest as he noticed an odd marking on the flower, and he lifted the daisy out of the water to look at it more closely. Its stem still bore the stains from the ink he'd dipped it in the day before, and its petals were streaked lightly with purple and blue. Frodo stared at it in fascination, turning it back and forth as he examined the delicate streaking. Picking up one of the others, he checked its white petals for similar streaks, and was vaguely disappointed to find none.

Carrying the mug of daisies with him, Frodo returned to the kitchen to examine the phenomenon in better light. There, he looked the daisy over again, and then smiled as he saw how the ink from the stem was staining his fingers in diluted blues and purples. Of course...the daisy had sucked the ink up into its self, along with the water. Pleased with his discovery, Frodo selected three others and put them in mugs of fresh water, carrying them one by one into his study and setting them along the window ledge. Once there, he dug out his colored inks and put several drops in each mug. Red, blue, and black ink stained the water in the mugs and Frodo settled back to watch the flowers with intent curiosity.

By the time his back had stiffened, and his neck had cricked, and his shoulders had cramped, and his buttocks had fallen numb...Frodo had decided that this sort of phenomenon was something rather like Gandalf's magics. Something that happened best if you weren't looking at it, waiting for it to happen. So, reluctantly, he returned to his papers, casting the occasional, longing look over at the stubbornly white flowers sitting on the windowsill.

Elevensies came with another rattling crash from the kitchen, and Frodo jumped to his feet, making for the kitchen in hopes of catching whomever was making the noise. Rounding the door frame, he skidded to a halt in the middle of the kitchen, disappointed to find not even a closing door to indicate which direction his mysterious visitor had fled in. On the table, however, was another mug of steaming beef barley soup, beside a half of a toasted cheese sandwich and a mug of milk. Another bright daisy was perched perkily on top of the mug of milk, stem balanced delicately across the earthenware rim.

Frodo didn't know how he was going to eat another bite, after the enormous second breakfast his mysterious admirer had prepared for him, but he was strangely reluctant to reject the food, the _gift,_ set before him now. Easing up to the table, Frodo carefully removed the daisy and set it with the others in the mug of water by the window. Returning to the table, he settled down and began to eat, savouring the soup and sandwich as he watched the rain-streaked windows out of the corner of his eye.

Who was giving him these gifts?

***

By the end of the day, Frodo was sure he hadn't had so much to eat since Bilbo had left, and perhaps not even before then. His mysterious benefactor had presented him with luncheon, tea, and dinner, all served up steaming and hot, ready for him on the table when he answered the rattling crash he had determined was actually the shutters on the kitchen window being slammed closed and open again. He had found wet footprints on the kitchen hearth rug at luncheon, and a small puddle by the kitchen door at tea, but no further sign of his anonymous suitor, aside from the ever-present daisy left behind. When he'd returned to his work after luncheon, he'd found a bottle of lotion at his desk, a daisy looped and tied loosely around it. Closer inspection revealed the lotion to be made of a rosemary extract, with cinnamon and ginger steeped in it as well, for warming and soothing sore and cramped muscles. Trying it out on his writing hand, he found that it did not cramp up so badly after a stint of writing, and, used again on his hand after writing, the cramping went away much faster under the habitual massage of fingers and palm.

His suitor knew him very well, indeed, and somehow that thought made Frodo feel both shy and warm inside. Someone had studied him, and had obviously put a great deal of thought into this courting of him, and Frodo didn't know what to think about that. On the one hand, it was really quite...flattering, to think that someone cared so much. On the other, it was rather frightening. Frodo was used to being alone; used to doing for himself, pleasing himself, and relying on himself. He didn't know how to feel about having someone else trying to please him.

Except for Sam.

Frodo stopped what he was doing at that thought, lifting his head and staring sightlessly out the window, over the daisies and into the evening darkness. Except for Sam. He'd become...used to Sam. More than used to Sam; dependent on Sam. He _missed_ Sam. He missed Sam's cheer and bustle, Sam's care and thoughtfulness. He missed _Sam._

He sighed and put down his pen, careful to rest the nib over the inkwell so any drips would fall back into the ink, instead of onto his document. Straightening, he arched his back, popping and cracking the vertebrae as he worked the kinks out of it, then took a dash of the new hand lotion and rubbed it into the cramp in his writing hand.

It'd never be Sam. Sam, rumour at the Green Dragon held, was sweet on Rosie Cotton; and even if he wasn't, there was no reason he'd choose a slender, pale, bookish hobbit who seldom did anything more strenuous than push a pen. Sam's tastes, Frodo was sure, would run to a fine, bonny, buxom lass. Or, if to a lad (which he doubted), would be a fine sturdy specimen of hobbithood. Not a thin, soft, scholarly type like himself.

He sighed again, frowning, and drew his gaze back into the study from the dark beyond it had been fixed on. The daisies caught his eye and he paused for a moment to study them idly. He had become so used, over the day, to looking at them and seeing no change that he almost missed the thin streaks of color running down their petals. He blinked, startled, and almost fell out of his chair at the rattling crash that echoed down the hall from the kitchen, so engrossed was he in his discovery. Rocking to his feet, he paused, torn between the daisies and the thought of another visit from his courting ghost. After a breath of hesitation, he scooped up the mugs and took them with him to the kitchen.

Frodo was startled to find the kitchen door closed, the hall dark around him as he approached it. Tiny slivers of warm golden light slid slyly out around the seams of the door, setting dust motes to dancing like sparks in the shadows. Hesitantly, Frodo shifted the mugs and daisies into one hand and put the other out, brushing his fingers along the suddenly-rough wood of the door, feeling his way gingerly to the latch. Heart in his throat, he lifted the latch, gently, almost tenderly easing the door open, as if afraid of what he might find on the other side.

As the door swung open, Frodo's eyes widened and his jaw dropped in sheer awe at the sight before him. The fire was stoked up and roaring in the hearth, and the table was set with all his finest tableware and linens. The only light came from the fire, and from the set of fine, beeswax tapers on the table -- every other candle or lamp in the kitchen was unlit, casting deep shadows all around and leaving the table in an island of warm golden light. In the center of the table, between the two tall, creamy, honey-scented tapers, was a plump stuffed goose, and Frodo could see the mushroom stuffing spilling out of it temptingly, even from where he stood in the door. The sight made his mouth water, even as his eyes drifted over the rest of the table's contents and his feet slid forward slowly. The aroma of good mushroom gravy tickled his nose and sped his steps, and he sighed as he spotted the bowl, filled to the brim with thick brown gravy and chopped, rehydrated mushrooms, just waiting to be spooned over the roasted meat. Baked taters and onions together with fresh, crusty bread, a pot of cool butter and a small leg of lamb, a bowl of mint jelly ready to spread on it resting nearby. Just behind the taters and onions was a bowl of diced mushrooms and peas, swimming in butter and cream, and to the side of that was a pitcher of ale, dark and mellow, cool beads of moisture rolling down its sides. Behind the goose was a set of plates with cherry pie and rhubarb tarts, clearly intended for afters, a large mug of sweet clotted cream sitting ready. But the dish that made Frodo stop and stare, unbelieving, was the plate of fresh, ripe, and plump mushrooms, plainly picked that day, out of season and tasty miracle that they had to be.

Frodo carefully set the daisy mugs down on the mantel over the hearth and made his way up to the full table. Pausing, he called out, hesitantly, "If you are there...won't you join me? Surely, there is enough for two...?" Silence answered him, and he looked back at the table, his hand drifting to the empty plate in front of him. Lifting up the napkin folded in the center of the plate, he was startled to find not one, but two daisies resting on the plate. Two brilliant starbursts of white petals growing from the same stem, both perfect blooms, and lovely, but joined not a finger's length down from their bright heads. Brushing the blooms under his nose, Frodo closed his eyes and sighed, then smiled and set the blooms to one side as he seated himself at the table. Carefully serving up the meal, he began a steady, if one-sided, conversation with his unseen suitor, complimenting the selection of foods, the cooking, and exclaiming in delight over the fresh mushrooms.

Frodo made a point of serving up two plates, setting one aside, as if for a guest, making sure to save a good slice of pie and one of the tarts as well as half of the clotted cream and half of the fresh mushrooms. Smiling, he got down an extra mug and set it beside the plate as he talked, explaining that he fully intended his unexpected guest to help themselves to the meal as well. "After all," he chuckled, "One should not be denied one's own cooking! Especially such fine cooking as you have provided me today...." He looked around at the shadows, "Are you sure you will not join me? I would like to thank you...."

But no one stepped out of the darkness, and Frodo was left to wonder. Finally, patting his full belly, Frodo got up and put the food away for the evening, leaving out his 'guest's' plate, and setting the pitcher of ale next to the empty mug. "This is for you, my unseen friend," he said, loudly. "I hope you will feel free to enjoy it. Thank you for providing it for me...it was a most pleasant gift indeed!" He hesitated, awkwardly, for a moment, then shrugged and, picking up his daisy mugs, retreated to his bedroom in quiet thought.

Finding his room cheerily lit with a warm fire and scented candles did not lift Frodo's thoughtful mood, and he settled quietly into the chair by the hearth, reaching into his vest pocket for his pipe and weed. Frowning when his hand emerged empty, Frodo stood and rummaged in the drawer of his bedside table, searching for the missing pouch, and then moved on to his dresser when the pouch did not appear. Still no luck. He stopped and thought, then smiled wryly to himself. _The last time I smoked my pipe was before Sam left,_ he thought. _We were at the Green Dragon...I bet I left it in my coat pocket!_

Making his way into the hall, Frodo quickly found his coat and searched the pockets, exclaiming in satisfaction as he pulled out the familiar shape. Returning to his room, he resettled himself by the fire and pulled out his pipe. Tapping the bowl clear, he pulled a generous pinch of pipeweed out and tamped it firmly into the bowl, breathing in the fresh smell with satisfaction. _Nothing like a good bowl of weed for thinking._ He took another deep breath, letting it out on a satisfied sigh. He did so like the rich, sweet smell of that fine South Farthing leaf, especially when mixed with....

Frodo stopped, mid-strike of his match. Lifting the bowl of his pipe up to his nose, he took another deep breath, sniffing the pipeweed carefully, and then pulled back to look at it in surprise. This wasn't his weed.... Picking up his pipeweed pouch, Frodo opened it up and blinked to find a somewhat-crushed daisy tangled into the long strings of chopped leaf. Lifting out the daisy, and inhaling deeply, he could smell the good South Farthing leaf, and the cloves it was mixed with in his own special blend, ordered especially from the Hornblowers. He could never remember to order enough, and he'd run out just after Yule -- he _knew_ he had run out, because he'd had Sam search the cellars, and he'd written off to the Hornblowers requesting more, but they had informed him that they would not have any until mid-spring, after the winter wet had lifted. He'd been disappointed, but resigned, as always, and had, as always, made a note to himself to order more 'than usual' that coming summer. Not that the note had ever worked before, Frodo smiled ruefully to himself. The rueful smile turned into a grin of honest delight as he struck his match and puffed the flame into the bowl of his pipe, sucking up a great draught of smoke and exhaling in pleasure.

Puffing thoughtfully, Frodo gazed into the fire and let his mind wander over the last few days. Reaching out, he plucked the daisy from the red-stained water and inspected it, enjoying the subtle red streaks running up the veins of the petal, idly peering at the daisy from every direction as he thought, his smile slowly turning into a thoughtful frown, blue eyes growing dark with contemplation.

Finally the embers burned down to ash in his pipe bowl and Frodo carefully knocked the cinders into the fireplace, standing up and making ready for bed, his mood somber. He was no closer to solving the mystery than he had been the first morning -- and he knew that first guess was wrong. Sam wasn't due back from Hardbottle for another three days, at least.

With a sigh, Frodo banked the fire and blew out the candles, climbing into his bed and snuggling down under the warm covers and closing his eyes. He almost wished it was Sam, this mysterious suitor...he missed Sam. Abruptly, Frodo buried his face into his pillow, to ease his stinging eyes. Tomorrow was Lovers' Day.

He missed Sam.

***

Frodo murmured sleepily and hiked his blankets up over his head in protest as the fire sizzled loudly in the hearth, dragging him reluctantly from his dreams. A deep sigh gusted up from under the covers as the fire popped merrily again and fingers slowly pulled the blankets down, revealing sleep-tousled brown curls and dazed eyes, still seeming to see halfway into the world of dreams. An incoherent murmur of protest accompanied the motion before Frodo dragged himself upright against his headboard, slowly blinking the sleep from his eyes. A jaw-cracking yawn and a clumsy rub of blue eyes completed the waking process and Frodo half fell out his bed, catching himself on the bedpost as the blankets tangled around his legs and threatened to tip him onto his face.

Groggily working himself free of the carnivorous cloth, Frodo dropped to his knees to dig under the bed for his chamber pot, finally hauling out the brass container with a sigh of relief. Hiking his nightshirt out of the way, he braced one hand on the bed frame and gave a nearly inaudible moan of release as he let his painfully full bladder relax and empty itself into the polished convenience. Sagging in relief as the pressure in his middle dissipated, Frodo took a deep breath and pushed himself to his feet, reaching upward in a stretch that drew him all the way up onto his toes before letting his body relax and slump against the bedpost.

Pushing away from the bed, Frodo drowsily skinned out of his nightshirt and prepared to wash, slopping steaming water into the wash basin, and splashing cool water after it to temper it down to a reasonable warmth. Washing quickly with his new soap woke him up the rest of the way, and it was with a cheerful heart and a merry whistle that Frodo slipped on his clothing, scooped up the chamber pot and made his way to Bag End's earth closet. Emptying and rinsing out the pot, Frodo made quick use of the closet and returned to his bedroom, slipping the chamber pot back under the bed and scrubbing his hands once more in the wash basin on the dresser. Tossing the wash water out the window, Frodo picked up the cherry wood comb and set his tousled curls to rights, then poured the last of the hot water into the waiting teacup and straightened up his bedroom while waiting for it to steep.

Arranging his colored daisies neatly on his bedside table next to the mugful of white blooms, Frodo took a few moments to admire the streaking and shading the ink had painted on the white petals. The black ink, in particular, had left striking patterns of blue and purple in the white daisy, and Frodo made a note to try it again, later in the summer with more flowers. He rather liked the way that daisy was taking color. Smiling, Frodo picked up his tea, flicking the used leaves into the fire, and stepped into the hall, only to pause as a thought took hold of him. He'd seen no new daisies this morning...a faint, cold clutch caught at his heart at the thought. Taking a breath, he scolded himself for the feeling, even as he turned and re-entered the bedroom, eyes scanning the area for any hint of the unusual.

Nothing on the dresser, save the comb from the day before. His pipeweed pouch and pipe were resting on the table by his armchair...the fire was just beginning to burn down, although the wood box was still full. His bed was carelessly made, where he'd flipped the covers up and smoothed them rather perfunctorily just moments before. The tea cup in his hand was proof of the fresh pot of water that had been hanging over the fire...his mysterious guest had definitely been in his room that morning....

Easing a few steps into the room, Frodo peered into crooks and corners, over tables and under chairs. Taking a last step up next to his armchair, he glanced down at the seat, then away...and then back into the chair seat, as a flash of white caught his eye. Perched delicately on the curve of the burgundy brocade cushion was a small bundle of spice sticks, bound about by the stem of a fresh daisy. Just under the twist of green stem was a flat, round, deep grey river stone, smooth and easy to the touch when Frodo picked up the bundle. Easing the stone out from under the floral binding, Frodo found his fingers automatically caressing the cool surface of the rock, finding it pleasantly soothing to work around in his hand. The river-polished surface of the stone was textured just enough to be satiny to the touch, and grooved down the center with a gentle divot that seemed to draw his thumb into itself, over and over as his fingers fondled it.

Baffled, Frodo sniffed at the spice sticks while playing with the stone, then set them all down beside his pipe, his fingers only reluctantly leaving the inviting surface of the river stone and tingling faintly at its absence. With a bemused smile, he turned and headed out into the hall and toward the kitchen, cheerfully anticipating his breakfast.

***

Deeply immersed in a transcription of an ancient Dwarven legend whose only known written version had been phonetically recorded in Sindarin for inclusion in the library at Rivendell, before being copied and the copy sent with Bilbo Baggins after his great quest and Grand Adventure, Frodo straightened up from his desk for a moment as he waited for the last words to dry on the page before him, eyes never leaving the elegantly scripted words as his hand reached out and selected a buttery piece of shortbread from the nearly empty plateful he'd brought into his study after Elevensies. Leaning a bit further back to keep crumbs from landing on his work area as he munched, he corrected an accent mark, and then put the page aside, drawing down a fresh sheet of parchment and licking the last sweet bits from his fingers before bending over the page and continuing the sentence where he'd left off. Dipping his quill into the inkpot, he tapped the drips off and carefully put nib to paper, beginning the next letter with a flourish...and paused, sniffing the air.

A delightfully inviting odor had wandered into the room, accompanied by a faint, irregular chiming drifting in from the hallway behind him. Turning his head, Frodo could hear the sound better...it sounded like something tapping against a metal bell, or small, fine, metal pot. Corking his ink and setting the quill safely aside, he stood up and followed the sound, and the delicious scent, down the hall, head tipped slightly to one side as he peered curiously into the shadows and paused at each door until he came to the bathing area. The faint chime rang out one, two more times and then stopped, and all Frodo could hear was the faint hissing sound of water heating over the bathroom's hearth. That was curious enough to draw him all the way into the bathing room and he took a breath in pleased surprise.

The polished copper tub was full and steaming, obviously prepared and ready for him. Floating in the hot water were several oranges, thickly covered with whole cloves, lending their scent to the bathwater and filling the air with a thoroughly enticing aroma. Also floating in the water were a pair of his brass-and-copper soap cups, a bit of curtain chain loosely draped into each cup's well and holding them together so that they chimed softly against each other with every gently rocking wave. In the smaller cup was a fresh daisy, more bud than bloom and thickly streaked with pink and green. Next to the tub, a thick, fleecy towel was set out, and a large ewer of cool water stood by, ready to cool the bath should it prove too warm.

Candles were perched on every available surface -- tall ones, short ones, stubs and tapers, pillars and votives -- their combined glow lighting the room brilliantly with a soft, warm light that was a comforting contrast to the grey rain beating icily on the frosted windows set high in the wall. The steam from the tub drifted lazily upward in tempting swirls of dancing mist, silver fingers caressing the sleek surface of the water. Frodo could see the shine of the oils easing out of the oranges, floating into pale, iridescent swirls under the steam. He took another deep breath, sniffing slowly and releasing the breath in a delighted sigh as he reached for the fastenings of his weskit.

Popping the buttons loose, Frodo shrugged off the heavy cloth and draped it over the chair by the door, stepping forward and shrugging out of his vest, then his braces, dropping the straps down to dangle around his knees as he dipped two fingers into the water. The blood-warm water lapped playfully at his skin, releasing more of its enchanting scent. Smiling with delight, Frodo half-turned to toss his vest on top of the weskit, then began to work on the buttons of his shirt, twisting each tiny bit of carved bone loose from its hole with patient care. It had been one of Bilbo's last gifts to him, and he wasn't going to ruin it for anything, if he could help it...not even the tempting warmth of a gift-given bath.

Pulling the tails out of his breeches, Frodo undid the last button and slid the shirt down off narrow ivory shoulders. Folding it loosely, he carefully set it on top of his vest and weskit. He was reaching for the buttons on his breeches when the sound of pottery breaking made him stop and turn.

Muffled, indistinct cursing carried down the hall and into the bathroom, quickly curbed -- but Frodo was already moving. Grabbing the nearest hard object for use as a weapon -- just in case -- Frodo bolted down the hallway, braces flapping about his thighs as he ran.

Skidding through the doorway to his own bedroom, he held his makeshift weapon at the ready as he bounced off the doorjamb and into the room. He nearly dropped his 'weapon' onto his own head when he saw who was there.

"SAM! What are you doing here?!" The racing of his heart made his voice harsh as he gaped at the other hobbit, completely taken aback.

Samwise Gamgee stared back at him, frozen mid-step, his hazel green eyes wide with shock and fright. Blue-stained water dripped off the bedside table and into the carpeting, and daisies were scattered all around the table. A broken mug lay in pieces on the floor by the bed, and another, intact but empty, rested on the sodden carpeting. Sam flushed red, Frodo's evening reading book in one hand, and a small, dark bottle of something in the other, its neck bound about with the stem of a lovely white daisy. "I, ah...."

Frodo lowered his makeshift weapon (noting with some amusement that it was an empty brass chamber pot) and set it on the floor as he stepped further into the room. Sam hunched under his gaze, face burning a deep red and hazel eyes looking everywhere but at Frodo. "Sam, I thought you were in Hardbottle...didn't your uncle....?"

Sam straightened abruptly, standing stiffly as he answered. "I hired a hobbit to go for me." He studied his toes, squishing softly on the wet carpet, then looked upward hesitantly. "Mister Frodo, I...." He fell silent and studied his feet again. "I'm sorry, sir. I've overstepped m'place."

"Overstepped your place? How? Sam...you are free to come and go, you know that...," Frodo took another step forward, his voice softening in concern. "Is there something wrong? Is your Gaffer well? Why did you not --" Frodo stumbled to a halt, his eyes suddenly caught on the bottle Sam was half hiding by his leg, the daisy peeking slyly around the strong curve of thigh. He stared at the mischievous flower, then, slowly, his blue eyes lifted to meet Sam's shy green ones. "Sam....?"

"I, ah...," Sam began, looking from Frodo's face to the bottle and back, and then fell silent again, blushing in confusion.

Frodo felt his confusion keenly, but he had to know. The tiny ember of hope flickering in his heart wouldn't let the question go unspoken, but the cold, heavy weight of fear made it struggle to be free. "Sam, is that...did you...?" He stopped, the fear pressing down into his stomach, trying to snuff out the hope, full of certainty that he was misunderstanding the significance of the daisies, and of the gifts.

As if seeing the uncertainty flickering in his master's eyes, Sam took a step forward, reaching out to him. Frodo looked at the book, then up at Sam, and his lips quirked. Sam looked down at the book he'd rescued from the bedside table, then lifted the other hand, stopping as he realized it, too, was full. Turning in a circle, he tried to find someplace to put the book down, finally tossing it on Frodo's bed, then turning to offer the bottle to Frodo again, with a shy smile. "Blackberry cordial. My Gaffer and I made it harvest before last. Has a right kick it does...I thought you'd enjoy it, of an evening." Still blushing faintly, Sam set his jaw and firmed his resolve, looking Frodo in the eye as he spoke. "It...seemed a fitting gift, for Lovers' Day."

Frodo met his gaze for a moment, searching Sam's hazel eyes as the cold uncertainty fought to stifle his breath. Slowly, he reached out and accepted the bottle, dropping his eyes to look at it. He curled a finger under the daisy, lifting it gently, and looked at Sam again. His voice was soft as he fought to keep it steady. "....yours?" he asked. At Sam's tentative nod, Frodo cleared his throat and spoke more firmly. "All of them?"

Sam blushed, eyes dropping down toward his feet before he jerked them up again to lock gazes with Frodo. Mossy green eyes flashed stone-determined into hesitant blue ones as he answered, "Aye. All of them." His chin came up and he squared his shoulders, as if bracing for a blow. His voice shook as he spoke, but was clear and strong. "I wanted you t'have a good Renewal, Mister Frodo. Seems like no one don't never pay no attention to you, 'specially come Renewal, and I...thought they should. I know it ain't m'place to...to...," he broke off, and seemed almost to lose his determination, changing his tack slightly. "I...you wasn't supposed to find out it were me, and I'm sorry if I've offended you, sir." He stiffened, shifting his gaze over Frodo's shoulder to fix it on the wall behind his master, clearly waiting for punishment.

Frodo shook his head, moving a half step closer as he exclaimed, "No, no, Sam...you haven't offended me! You haven't offended me at all. I...just...." Setting the bottle of cordial on his dresser before it dropped from his shaking fingers, Frodo held out both hands helplessly. "I just...don't understand....why...," his voice nearly inaudible, he finished, "why...me?" His shoulders drooped and he dropped his gaze, looking toward the fire to hide his discomfort.

Sam's eyes widened and his heart gave a thump that made him take a whole step forward before he caught himself. But he couldn't stop the flood of words that boiled up and out of him, fervent and low. "Because you're the dearest, sweetest master a hobbit could have and because as you _deserve_ t'have a happy Renewal! I've noticed how it's nowt but you ever been here at Bag End of a Renewal and how no one as is up f'r even visitin' you; you never have no gifts what come in t'you and you never send none out, neither. You never have no one what's courting you, nor never even walk out with no one. Fine, kind, beautiful hobbit like you ought t'have suitors coming in the windows and why it's only Sam Gamgee to do't I can't fathom but it is and...." Somewhere in the middle of his outburst, Sam found he'd stepped forward and put both hands on Frodo's bare shoulders. He was shaking Frodo slightly in emphasis to his words while Frodo's soft skin seemed to burn his hands, and he was horrified to hear such secrets spilling into the light of day, and yet he couldn't seem to stop, even so, the emotions and feelings flooding out of him, desperate to stop the pain he could see in his master's eyes. "And...and I planned it for over a year, for you. I hired a hobbit t'work for me, and I forced up the daisies, early, special, just for you. You deserve a good Renewal, and you deserve to have fine, up-standing lads or lasses courting you, but I just couldn't bear it, Mister Frodo, I just couldn't bear it t'see you going on another year thinking that no one was caring, no one was loving you. I'm only a simple hobbit, and I'm not much to be looking at, nor am I nowt besides the likes of any Baggins, but I...." Fiercely, Sam clamped his teeth down around that secret, biting it back before it could escape and shatter his fracturing heart like the mug on the flagstones at his feet.

Frodo was staring at him. Cerulean blue eyes huge in shock and astonishment, looking even larger in his white face, Frodo's jaw dropped slowly open, then closed and opened again as he struggled for the words to respond to this confession. He brought his hands up to rest on Sam's arms, and finally choked out, "...are you courting me, then, Samwise Gamgee?"

Sam closed his eyes, as if in pain, then opened them and glared at Frodo, giving him another shake. "Aye, I am, if you will have me. The Gaffer will kill me for't, but, aye." His voice was rough, but firm, leaving Frodo no choice but to believe him.

He held Frodo like that, by the shoulders at arm's length, for a moment more, then, slowly, searching Frodo's eyes for hesitations or rejections, Sam pulled him closer and into a tight embrace. He could feel Frodo's body trembling against his own, and carefully, tenderly, he wrapped his arms around Frodo, holding him firmly. Frodo's arms came up and around his waist, slowly tightening until Frodo was holding him desperately tight, face buried in Sam's shoulder. Sam felt him take a deep breath, and then let it out, his body relaxing as he exhaled.

Frodo could feel the buttons of Sam's shirt digging into his flesh, where he was pressed chest to chest against the other hobbit, and the reassuring warmth of Sam's arms wrapped protectively around his body, holding him close and safe. He felt like his world had suddenly turned onto its ear, with everything flying out of place and scattering all about him in a whirlwind mess of pieces. He took another deep breath, and exhaled, feeling the tension drain out of his body as he deliberately relaxed, his eyes closed. Leaning back slightly, he loosened his grip on Sam and opened his eyes to look into Sam's from only a finger's length away. Sliding his hands around Sam's firm body and up his chest to rest on his broad shoulders, Frodo half-smiled. "Aye, Sam. I'll have you."

They smiled at each other for a moment, and then Sam was pushing Frodo away, smiling at him and chiding softly. "The bath's a-wasting, Mister Frodo, and this carpet's goin' t' be ruint if I don't get it rinsed right quick. Why don't you go on and have that bath whilst I clean up in here, like, and we can have a ... a... we can talk about it, after we finish. Go on with you now, sir, and get you into that water. I can feel you shivering, and that bath needs using. It'll be good for you, and I can clean up this mess. I just need to rinse the rug, quick, and hang it out to dry." Firmly, Sam chivvied Frodo out the door and toward the bathing room, Frodo smiling bemusedly as he went.

At the door to the bathing room, Frodo paused to look back, finding warm, moss-green eyes following after him. He smiled and lifted a hand in a small wave, then laughed softly as Sam made determined shooing motions at him. Obediently, he turned and vanished into the bathing room, knowing that Sam would return to the bedroom to clean up the broken pottery and drag the rug out to rinse.

***

Sinking into the steaming water, Frodo had to admit the bath felt divine. The heat crawled up his sides, raising tickling waves of goose pimples across his flesh and then melting them away with a delightfully soothing lap of warmth. Settling against the sloped back of the tub, he held back a gasp at the feel of the cool metal on his bare back, then slowly released it with a hiss as the metal warmed to the touch of his skin. The steam curled up and around him, soaking his curls and pulling them into tight ringlets all about his face as he tipped his head back to rest on the copper rim, letting his breath out in a long, soft sigh of pleasure.

Every muscle melting in the sensuous heat, Frodo closed his eyes and just floated in the scented water for several minutes, letting his brain sift and sort and settle all the events of the last few days, especially the most recent bits. He felt dizzy, like he was spinning around and around and around in a windstorm, his thoughts like dry leaves, all a-flutter as they spun. Finally they all came to rest with a soft flutter in his mind, like butterflies alighting into a field of flowers; one moment a trembling cloud of color hovering over the field, the next the cloud has settled and all that is left is the occasional flicker of a colored wing amongst the grass.

That was how Sam found him -- limp, relaxed, and nearly asleep in the warm water. He smiled softly, stepping silently into the room in order to avoid disturbing Frodo. Carefully, he pulled a furiously steaming kettle off of the fire and quietly poured it into a heavy ewer of cool water, checking the temperature carefully with his thumb to get it just right -- as hot as comfortably possible, without fear of burning. Scooping up the ewer, he shuffled quietly up to the copper tub and began to pour, easing the fresh water in without a splash.

Frodo shifted drowsily as he heard the faint slap of water entering the tub. His eyes opened and he lifted his head as he felt the fresh ripples of heat shimmer down his sides, down his legs, fiery fingers of water caressing his skin, down to his groin.

As the ewer emptied, Sam smiled down at Frodo and lifted the ewer up to pour the last bit in, all in a rush, and Frodo's eyes widened. The fiery fingers swirled down and around the shaft of his cock, lifting it slightly and dragging it along the skin of his thigh as they slid in a curling grip down his length from root to crown. His breath caught and he looked up at Sam, hands slipping into the water and cheeks pinking as he caught Sam's smile.

"Wash your hair for you, Mister Frodo?" Sam pretended not to see the pink as he refilled the ewer and water kettle, setting the latter back on the fire to heat again before turning around with a wax-coated, wooden box in his hands. The box was finely made, intricately inlaid with strips of colored wood and fitted with a tight lid to keep the creamy hair soap where it belonged, inside the box.

Frodo nodded and slipped down into the water, lifting his hands over his head as he slid into the narrow copper tub. The warmth of the water closed over his head and stopped up his ears as he folded up his knees and sank into it, blowing bubbles out of his nose as he pushed off of the far side of the tub and emerged again, water streaming down his face as he sat upright. Sam moved behind him, setting the wax-coated box of cream soap onto the floor as he scooped a handful of the white mixture out and reached for Frodo's drenched curls.

Strong fingers slowly massaged the creamy soap into a thick, fluffy lather, sliding through wet curls with silent grace as Frodo sighed and relaxed into the firm, soothing touch. Sam smiled and bent to his task silently, digging his fingers into taut muscles in the back of Frodo's neck, sliding his fingers up and through the foaming curls, then down and around Frodo's delicately pointed ears. His fingers lingered for a moment, gently soaping up the sensitive tips of those ears as Frodo's eyes closed in unselfconscious pleasure, before curling downward and around to the back of Frodo's neck again. Kneading first with one hand, then the other, Sam scrubbed his knuckles gently into Frodo's scalp and tugged and rubbed until he had thoroughly cleaned every bit of Frodo's hair.

Stepping away to get the ewer of cool water, and warming it with the contents of the kettle from over the fire, Sam draped a small hand towel over his shoulder before returning to the copper tub. "Bend your head back, Mister Frodo, me dear. No, keep your eyes closed, your Sam won't let the soap go driftin'." Slowly, cautiously, he began to pour the warm water down over Frodo's forehead, carefully directing the stream so that it ran down through the seal brown curls, carrying the white foam away from Frodo's face and into the tub.

When the ewer had drained enough he could pour with one hand, Sam used his free hand to scrub and scrape gently at Frodo's hair, squeezing the suds and water from it over and over as the ewer emptied. He worked his fingers into the wet mat of hair, finger combing out the knots and making sure that all the soap was gone from the soft curls, and that they were well rinsed.

"Are you ready to get out, then, Mister Frodo?" Sam set the ewer aside, wiping his hands on the hand rag over his shoulder, and then reached for the bathing towel he'd set out earlier, shaking its folds out and spreading it wide.

Frodo flushed, and nodded, standing up as Sam held out the towel for him. Stepping out of the tub, Frodo allowed Sam to wrap the towel around his wet body, taking the corners from Sam and hugging it close around himself. He started as he felt Sam's hands begin to rub the thick, soft cloth into his damp skin, drying his back and sides, then moving down to his buttocks and hips.

Matter-of-factly, Sam began to briskly rub Frodo dry, using his hands to scrub the towel against Frodo's hips and down the outside and back of his legs, then coming back up the fronts and insides. Sliding his hands up the front of Frodo's hips, he vigorously rubbed at Frodo's upper belly and chest, and then down his arms, before moving behind him and scrubbing hard at Frodo's back. Frodo sighed and relaxed slightly under the impersonal massage, delighting in the rough pressure against his skin and trying to hide his body's reaction to the cloth dancing across the front of his groin, and to Sam's mere presence so very close to him, as Sam rubbed him dry from head to foot.

When Sam finally stopped, Frodo looked at him and then cleared his throat, reluctantly shifting the towel down off his shoulders and draping it around his hips, tucking it into itself to hold it tightly around his waist. "I seem to have left my robe in the bedroom...," he began shyly.

Sam just smiled again, eyes merry as he scooped up Frodo's clothing. "Aye. I'll just take these in for you, Mister Frodo, and hang them up." He paused, and looked at Frodo again, taking in the nervous smile and the fidgeting fingers worrying at the corner of the towel. "Take your time, Mister Frodo," he said, seriously, eyes darkening in loving concern. "No rush for owt to do with the bedroom, me dear. All's in there now is a bit of cordial, a warm fire and a few biscuits, unless you want more. Today's for you, Mister Frodo...not for me."

Frodo felt a weight seeming to melt off of his shoulders at the words, fears he hadn't realized he was carrying until Sam had relieved them. He had accepted Sam's courtship wholeheartedly, but the thoughts of exactly what that courtship could entail had slid silently into his subconscious and bubbled and spat there, bringing up ghosts of old uncertainties and echoes of self-doubt. In his soft eyes, and low voice, Sam had managed to quell those doubts, and Frodo began to smile as he followed Sam into his bedroom.

Sam carefully hung Frodo's clothing up, and pulled out his nightrobe, shaking the creases out of it and holding it up for Frodo to put on. The grey, rain-washed light seeping in at the window told Frodo he probably wouldn't be having any visitors this afternoon -- few, if any, challenged the muddy roads at this time of year, especially when the cold rain was coming down to turn the mud of the roads into a knee-deep mire with an appetite for adventurous hobbits -- so he smiled at Sam and allowed him to slip the robe over his shoulders, quickly belting it in the front before reaching under the fine cloth and tugging the towel loose. Sam took the bathing towel with an answering smile and vanished out into the hall with it as Frodo moved to settle himself into the armchair by the fire, pouring out two small glasses of the blackberry cordial and packing his pipe as he waited for Sam to return.

Coming back into the room, Sam paused in the doorway to watch Frodo as he lit his pipe with a taper from the fire and then settled back into his chair. He smiled as Frodo picked up the river stone he'd left as a gift earlier, watching as Frodo's thumb slid down the groove again and again as Frodo considered the grey rock in his hand. Sam marveled at the thought that Frodo had actually accepted his suit, when he hadn't intended to ask at all...the Gaffer really was going to kill him, when he found out. The one time he'd broached the subject, his Gaffer had laid into him with the sharp side of his tongue, spouting words like, _opportunist, goldseeker,_ and _social climber._ But it had given Sam some hope when the Gaffer had, later, mentioned that if _Frodo,_ however, had begun to court _Sam..._ well, that would be a different matter completely .

A puff of fragrant silver smoke swirled up around Frodo's head and Sam smiled again, moving closer and settling at Frodo's feet with a small sigh. Leaning back against the chair his master was sitting in, Sam closed his eyes and just reveled in Frodo's presence for several moments, until Frodo asked him, "Sam.... What are these for?"

Frodo was holding out the spice sticks, and the river stone. Sam smiled and took one of the spice sticks, breaking off a strip and tucking it into his cheek before answering, "You chew on them, Mister Frodo. And the stone, there, you rub it."

"You...rub it?" Frodo took the strip of spice stick Sam offered him and hesitantly repeated Sam's actions, tucking it into his cheek and clamping it between his teeth. He put the bundle back on the table next to his pipe, and held up the stone, fondling it with his fingers as he looked at it, and then back at Sam. A burst of flavor made his mouth water and he sucked lightly at the stick, worrying it with his teeth and enjoying the taste as he tried to puzzle out the stone in his hands.

"Aye." Sam reached up and took the stone from him, holding it in the palm of one hand and stroking down the groove with his thumb. "Like so. 'Tis a fret-stone. See?" He held up his hand to show Frodo how the round stone fit into his palm, while his thumb slid back and forth along the curved surface. "You rub it." He handed it back to Frodo. "Gives y'r hands summat to do when you are fretted 'bout aught."

"Interesting." Frodo looked the stone over again, rubbing his thumb up and down the groove in the cool surface, enjoying the satiny feel of the stone's water polished exterior.

Sam smiled at him, head tipped up against the padded arm of Frodo's chair. "The spice sticks, they're for you to chew on, for when you are worrit...," he reached up and took Frodo's other hand, twisting about until he was facing Frodo from his seat on the floor. Gently, he caressed the worn fingers he held, lightly touching the chewed down nails. "Give y'r poor fingers a rest, maybe, when you are thinkin'."

Sam's touch slid across Frodo's nerves like a well-rosined bow across the strings of a fine fiddle, causing all his senses to sing and sigh softly inside his skin. Frodo shivered slightly, eyes darkening as he watched Sam touch his hand, fingers so gentle he couldn't feel the calluses on Sam's fingers as Sam stroked the back of his hand. A soft breath escaped him, and Sam looked up with a wise smile.

Frodo felt his skin warm under Sam's touch, tightening and humming with sensation, every stroke, each caress tingling up through his nerves and into the back of his skull, gathering there like honey'd dew to drip in hot, slow, shivering rivers down his spine and pool in a sweet, trembling puddle, heavy between his legs. His breath caught in his chest as Sam's eyes met his, and he could almost feel the gaze like a touch on his face. He could feel his heartbeat surging in his chest, loud in the silence of his mind and throbbing in his throat so he could not speak, even if he'd wanted to. Frodo watched as Sam's gaze darkened slightly, in some way he did not understand but a way that made his belly tremble almost in fear...but not. Sam's fingers continued their light stroking, moving up to caress Frodo's wrist, then his warm hands turned Frodo's own hand over to expose his sensitive palm to the electric touches. It was exhilarating, breath-stealing and terrifying all at once, Frodo thought suddenly, and smiled.

"Frodo...?" Sam's voice was hoarse, soft, and a little uncertain, his brows tightening in faint, charming bewilderment.

The slight quaver touched Frodo's heart, pulling him forward and down, down. His free hand slid behind Sam's head, fingers burying themselves deep into the sun-bleached curls as Frodo suddenly found himself face-to-face with Sam. Green eyes met blue with a bare finger's length between them, and Frodo hesitated. One breath, two, passed as he searched the golden-green depths...then sighed, lashes feathering down as he closed the space between them. He tasted smooth skin, soft and wet and bright with the taste of spice and _Sam._

A soft whimper fell from between them, dropping to shatter like a sliver of heart's crystal on the silence of the room -- Frodo didn't know who it had come from, but it was enough to bring him back to himself. He was on his knees by his chair, half in Sam's lap, nightrobe rucked up about his thighs and both hands firmly tangled into Sam's gold-touched curls. His mouth felt tender, and swollen in the most delicious manner, his breath was ragged and quick, heart beating at a racing pace. Sam's arms were tight about him, holding him safe, and warm, against that strong hobbit body. Frodo could feel a hard knot pressing into his thigh where he was sprawled against Sam, the heat of its awareness burning into his skin. Sam had one hand tangled in Frodo's own curls, lightly cupping the back of his head, and the other hand had somehow slipped inside Frodo's nightrobe, pulling the cloth back and away from his pale chest, the sash half undone. Sam's palm was spread across his back, holding him in Sam's lap and keeping him from falling all the way to the floor, its warmth against his naked skin both branding and soothing him, all at once.

Frodo pulled back slightly, just enough to focus on Sam's face. His eyes fell to Sam's mouth, fascinated by its wet, red texture. He licked his lips, staring at Sam's and remembering their taste, then flicked his eyes up to meet Sam's amused gaze. Sam's eyes were warm, and tender, and soft and dark, and he smiled at Frodo, waiting patiently for him to gather his wits back about himself. Frodo's eyes fell to those red, wet lips again, and he leaned forward, as if to taste, then hesitated, looking up at Sam again, uncertain.

Sam leaned forward to close the distance between them, placing a soft, delicate caress on Frodo's mouth, his tongue flicking out to taste Frodo's skin lightly, like a bee sipping nectar from a flower. His hand flexed against Frodo's back, shifting to caress down the skin of Frodo's side and hip, then pulling out of the robe to slide down the fine cloth, fingers curling around to touch the back of Frodo's thigh, soothing him as he would a skittish colt, or a shy lamb. Frodo sighed, closing his eyes again as he relaxed into the touch, mouth opening on a breath as Sam's lips caressed his. Sam's soft mouth moved down and along Frodo's jaw, warm breath curling under to caress his throat, melting him with shivers as strong teeth nipped lightly at his jaw line. He eased back further onto Sam's lap as the tension left him, feeling strong thighs sloped under him, Sam's hand cupping the muscles of his right buttock to help keep him from sliding onto the floor. The other hand left his curls and slid down Frodo's side to pull him tighter against Sam, fingers flexing and kneading gently.

Soft lips nibbled and nipped at Frodo's neck, sliding down the thick tendon that protected his jugular as he instinctively tipped his head back, baring his throat to the caress -- he shuddered at the surge of sensation flooding through his body, a sharp gasp escaping as he tightened his fingers in Sam's curls. A warm chuckle tickled the hollow of his throat, making him whimper softly, and Sam lifted his head to kiss Frodo on the mouth once more, gently, softly, savouring the touch. His hands slid up Frodo's back, and down again, soothing, gentling, grounding Frodo as he shuddered and gasped, "Sam...!"

"Easy, me dear, me dear," Sam murmured, tightening his arms reassuringly around the other. "Easy, easy.... Here, now, shift up, move your leg, Frodo, me dear. M'knees are falling asleep, so." Gently, Sam urged Frodo up onto his knees, then guided one leg over so Frodo was straddling his lap, sliding his hands down to cup Frodo's rear again and support him as he settled. "There...tis better thus, is it not? Shhh...shhhh...," he soothed, smiling.

Frodo buried his face into the crook of Sam's neck, taking deep breaths, arms tight around Sam's shoulders as he struggled to control himself. His skin tingled, and even the shifting of his nightrobe against it as he breathed sent shivers of delightful sensations sliding up and down his nerves. His heart was pounding, and the heavy feeling in his groin had gotten deeper, harder, pulling him firmly into Sam's lap as he panted. His arms trembled, and Sam's embrace tightened around him, soothing and supporting, fingers flexing against his lower back and rump, gently scratching against the fabric of his robe. The honey inside of him filled him up until it was hard to breathe, tightening his chest and making his arms heavy, languid, as they clung to Sam's shoulders. Each breath brought the scent, the taste of Sam's skin into his nose and mouth, filling his mind with the warm, musky flavor.

Nuzzling into the warm flesh, Frodo sighed, relaxing into Sam's supporting arms for a moment. Taking a deep breath, he pushed back, sitting up and looking Sam in the face as he began, "I'm sor-- "

"Hisssh!" Sam put a hand across Frodo's mouth, stopping him, eyes twinkling. "Now, don't you be apologizing none! Not a bit." Gently, the fingers moved down and away, tips trailing across Frodo's soft lips, tracing them lightly before Sam shifted his grip to cup Frodo's jaw with both hands, hunching in to kiss him lightly. "You've nowt to apologize for, Mister Frodo, and that's a fact."

Frodo began to protest, reaching up to grasp at Sam's hands and pull them down into his lap, holding them tightly. "But -- !"

Sam pulled a hand free, to caress Frodo's cheek gently as he interrupted. "Nowt." Hazel-green eyes met bright blue, insistent and determined. Lightly, Sam ran his hand up into Frodo's dark curls, twisting them around and about his fingers, tugging on them gently as he stroked the side of Frodo's head and caressed his ear lightly, fingertips tracing delicately along the pointed tip. Frodo leaned into the caress hesitantly, eyes on Sam's face as he relaxed into the touch. Finally, a deep sigh eased its way up and out of his chest and Frodo slumped, sinking back into Sam's lap, warm thighs meeting warm thighs, body losing its tension as Frodo enjoyed the intimate touch.

Sam smiled as Frodo's eyes closed, and eased his other hand free to caress Frodo's jaw and cheek lightly. Easing both hands down, he lightly massaged Frodo's shoulders, digging his fingertips into the tight muscles for a moment, then rubbing his way down Frodo's chest, sliding his fingers gently inside the open front of the nightrobe to caress Frodo's skin with delicate fingertips, tracing his way up to Frodo's throat to feel the pulse pounding there.

As Sam's fingers paused in the hollow of his throat, Frodo opened his eyes, looking down into Sam's wondering face. "I...dreamt about this," Sam admitted, softly, his fingers stroking Frodo's throat gently. Reverently, his sun-browned fingers traced across the creamy white skin, pausing here to feel Frodo's pulse, drifting there to follow the faint tracery of a blue vein running just under the skin. "Y'are so...fine. So very fine. Too fine for the likes o' Sam Gam--"

Frodo's hand pressed against his lips, stopping the words before they broke all the way free. "Don't you say it, Samwise Gamgee. Don't you dare say it. If you're not worthy, who is? No one. Not one. No one has ever --" Frodo stumbled, eyes shining wetly, "never.... And you're a fine one to speak! A good, stout, strong hobbit like you! You are the fine one, Sam, not I. So strong, so gentle...." The words were a balm on Sam's trembling heart, and he smiled into Frodo's touch, hands drifting still to rest pressed against Frodo's bare chest. Frodo smiled back, "How I could ever have deserved the likes of you --!"

Frodo rocked back on his heels and, reaching up to grasp one of Sam's hands as he moved, rose to his feet, pulling Sam up after him. He paused, looking into Sam's eyes, then glancing at the bed waiting at the corner of the room. Hesitantly, Frodo said, "We should talk about this.... We need to talk about this, the two of us. There are so many things I want to -- things I need to.…" He broke off at Sam's suddenly reserved look. "No, Sam! No...!" Quickly, he pulled the hand he held up to his lips, kissing the back of it lightly, and then grasping it with both hands. "Just...we need to _talk_ about this. Like you said, before my bath...just to talk, to understand each other better." Taking a step backwards, Frodo tugged Sam towards the bed. "Come, hold me?" A mischievous twinkle lit his eyes as he murmured, "Keep me warm as we talk?"

Sam followed helplessly, still a bit wary, but his caution melting with each step. His breath caught as Frodo climbed into the bed and patted the mattress in invitation. Sam slipped into the bed next to Frodo, and Frodo took his hand again, turning it palm up to drop a soft kiss into the center of it. Frodo smiled up at him, snuggling against his side as he relaxed enough to lean against the headboard. After a moment, Sam lifted up his arm and draped it over Frodo's shoulders, letting Frodo nestle against his side.

Frodo sighed and tucked himself against Sam's chest, resting his ear against that broad breast and listening to the strong heart beat for several moments, reveling in the safe, warm, protected feeling that being surrounded by Sam's sturdy arms offered. Sam's fingers gently brushed down his arm, and Sam's other hand crept across his belly to tangle with Frodo's fingers as they lay there. Finally, Frodo stirred himself to ask, "Sam.... where did you get the fresh mushrooms?"

Sam blinked, and his fingers tightened on Frodo's hand for a moment before he chuckled, the sound rolling up and out of his chest and into Frodo's ear where it rested against the firm flesh. His voice sounded deeper, more purring from Frodo's vantage, leaning against the warm rib cage. "I grew them under my bed."

Frodo waited, then looked up at Sam when no further information was shared. "...under your bed?"

Sam smiled down at him, pulling his fingers loose to lightly caress Frodo's cheek, almost as if he could not believe Frodo was right there to be touched. "Aye. Under my bed. Mushrooms, they like the dark, see?, and they grow well in caves and such underground...but I had t'keep them hidden from my Gaffer, or he'd have eaten them all and left none for you, me dear. So I hid them under m'bed." Sam's fingertips twisted into a soft, dark curl of hair over Frodo's ear, tugging gently, and Frodo could feel him relax further into the pillows. "Worked, too."

Frodo grinned. "Yes...so it appears. They were very good mushrooms...thank you." He reached up to touch Sam's lips, stroking them lightly, feeling the change in texture between the lips and the skin around them. Playfully, Sam flicked his tongue out to lick the tickling fingers, making Frodo chuckle.

After a moment, Sam tipped his head down to look at Frodo. He started to speak, then stopped, frowned thoughtfully, and shook his head.

Frodo sat up slightly, pushing away from Sam's chest just enough to look into his face. "What?" he asked.

Sam frowned harder, then looked toward the table beside the bed. Looking back at Frodo, he said, "Tis nowt...but..."

Brows wrinkled in confusion, Frodo looked at the bedside table himself, then back at Sam. "What?"

Sam shrugged, and a faint flush crept up his cheeks as his eyes dropped uncomfortably. Frodo reached out and lifted Sam's chin, bracing himself on one elbow as he leaned in close, eyes questioning. Sam flushed darker pink, and said, "I'm sorry I broke your mug earlier. I -- Howdidyouchangethedaisies?" The last was said so quickly Frodo had to blink and shake his head.

"How did I what?" He stroked his fingers along Sam's hairline and down one cheek, glancing at the table again, and back to Sam.

Sam looked up at him, taking a breath and saying, slowly and deliberately, "How did you change the daisies?" The red stain in his face drained away, then surged back, giving evidence to Sam's discomfort.

Frodo blinked and leaned back, then stifled a small chuckle, flopping down onto his side and snuggling up against Sam's ribs again. Reaching across Sam's belly, Frodo hugged himself to that warm body, burrowing his nose into the worn shirt Sam wore, grinning. "Ink. I put ink in the water." He peeked up at Sam, still grinning, eyes bright as he peered through his lashes at Sam. "It was the quills you gave me, Sam, that made me do it. In a way."

Sam looked confused, his arms tightening around Frodo as Frodo burrowed into his side. One hand lifted to cup the back of Frodo's neck, fingers lacing themselves into dark curls and finger-combing them out again and again as he listened.

Frodo rolled back slightly, so he could look up at Sam easier. "I grabbed the daisy you left in the quill cup, by accident, and dipped it into the ink before I knew it was a daisy. Later, I saw that it had color on it, so I tried to figure out what had happened...and tried to do it again." He grimaced, remembering a long morning spent staring at unchanging white flowers, and then grinned. "It takes a while, though, for the color to come."

Sam stared at him in disbelief, even his hands still for a moment. Finally, he laughed, deep and delighted, throwing his head back against the pillows. "Ink!" he chuckled, arms tightening around Frodo and rocking him with each laugh. "And trust you to find it, by accident!" Sam grinned down at Frodo, meeting his amused gaze.

"Aye, by accident." Frodo admitted with a soft chuckle. He grinned up at Sam for several moments, gradually going still as his eyes caught on Sam's. He watched in fascination as the green eyes darkened, pupils dilating slowly, their focus intensifying. Slowly, hesitantly, Sam shifted, leaning into and over Frodo until Frodo was laying flat on the bed, Sam bracing himself half over Frodo's shivering body. Slowly, a breath at a time, he leaned closer, closer, until his breath caressed Frodo's lips, his chin. Sam's hands slipped up and slid into the curls at the back of Frodo's head, cupping his skull gently but firmly as Sam's lips pressed home.

Frodo gasped, his own arms coming up to wrap tightly around Sam's chest, mouth opening under the warm assault. He groaned, shifting under Sam's weight until he'd settled the other's body comfortably against his own, one knee rising to brace himself against the bed. Sam used that knee as a bulwark to lean into as he slowly, thoroughly, and deliberately kissed Frodo, tongue tasting, stroking, caressing, teeth nipping, fingers kneading into Frodo's curls, pulling Frodo's head back and arching that slim body upward into his own.

Frodo whimpered again, a faint desperation threading through the sound as his fingers clutched at Sam's shirt. Sam groaned, pulling back from Frodo's mouth to nuzzle into his bared neck, licking and nipping his way down to Frodo's collarbone, where he began to set a passion mark, distracting Frodo as he shifted to lie more fully along Frodo's length, using his weight to hold Frodo down as he quivered. Sam brought up one knee to straddle Frodo's extended leg, his hip pressing into Frodo's bracing knee, nudging Frodo's thighs slowly open. Frodo shivered and twisted, fists tightening in Sam's shirt until the seams creaked.

Exhilaration, desire, and fear wound together into a rope of barbed sensation sliding through Frodo until he could hardly breathe for the singing sparks it gave off under Sam's attentions. Every touch of Sam's skin against his own sent electric tingles slithering along nerves already sensitized by earlier kisses. The rough slide of Sam's homespun cloth along his legs made Frodo whimper and twist, hips shifting helplessly. He started to part his legs, then closed them again as Sam's left hand left the curls on his head and slid down to his hip, cupping the curve of bone there and making Frodo gasp and arch again, helplessly pressing himself into Sam's sturdy body above. He could feel the buttons on Sam's shirt scraping against his chest, pressing hard into his flesh as he flexed under Sam's weight, and he stiffly unknotted one hand from the rough cloth of the shirt, raking his fingers down Sam's back to pull Sam more tightly against himself. "S-sam...!" he whimpered, shaking and overwhelmed.

Sam arched into Frodo, releasing his curls completely in favor of hooking a hand under Frodo's right shoulder and hugging the slight body tightly to him. His left hand pulled up and back, then slid onto Frodo's belly, hot flesh to hot flesh, curling under the nightrobe to cup Frodo's hip again, skin to skin this time. Hearing the distress in his master's voice, Sam released the red mark on Frodo's neck, giving it one last, soothing lick before nuzzling it gently with his nose, his cheek, murmuring, "Ah, me dear, me dear... your Sam is here, he'll take care of you...shhhh, shhh...." Frodo shook under him, gasping, heart beating so hard Sam almost expected to see it leap right out of the pale chest. Frodo's eyes were tightly closed, and he twisted under Sam's weight, as if unable to stop moving, each motion sparking a sensation that flooded through him, making him unable to be still.

Sam hugged more tightly, shifting to lie completely on top of Frodo as he slipped both hands under Frodo's shoulders, sliding them under the nightrobe to press his palms to the hot skin. Frodo whimpered again, arms tightening around the broad chest pinning him to the bed, hands rising to sink into the gold-streaked curls, pulling Sam into a tentative, but enthusiastic kiss. Sam allowed the kiss, patient and gentle, waiting for Frodo to come back to himself.

Slowly the blue eyes opened again, blue-pale lids fluttering sharply before dark, dilated pupils focused on the merry face waiting. Sam hugged Frodo again, then pushed back slightly to prop himself up on his elbows as he spoke. "Frodo, me dear...," he paused, as if uncertain how to continue.

Frodo blinked again, eyes sharpening as he sensed the seriousness in Sam's voice. "...yes, Sam?" he prompted, sliding his hands down to rub at Sam's shoulders.

"Frodo...are you...have you...?" Sam flushed, taking a deep breath and letting it out in an exasperated sigh, glancing away for a moment before returning his gaze to Frodo. "I mean... is this...?"

Frodo frowned, confusion wrinkling his forehead.

Sam tried again, blushing, "I...have you ever...?" He broke off, searching Frodo's eyes.

Comprehension. Frodo flushed and, with a faint shake of his head, closed his eyes, lashes dark against pinking cheeks, and turned his face away, bashful discomfort painted stiffly in every line of his body.

Sam crumpled, eyes widening in distress, "Oh, no, no, me dear, me dear, Frodo, no, I didn't mean...you shouldn't feel so!" Sliding his elbows out from under himself, Sam reached up to caress Frodo's cheek, cupping it gently in his palm as he turned Frodo to face him again. Cradling the dark curls in one hand, he stroked the backs of his fingers from the other up and down Frodo's cheek until Frodo opened his eyes and looked up again. "Tis not a shame, nor a sin, to one or t'other, Frodo. I'm just askin' -- I don't want to be...you seemed to be enjoyin' as what we were doin' and I didn't want to get...I didn't want to hurt you, should you be willin'...I mean, if you follow me..." Sam's tongue stumbled and tripped over the words, and the distress in his eyes made Frodo melt.

Reaching up a hand, Frodo tangled his fingers into those of the hand Sam was stroking him with, tightening his grip gently before drawing Sam's hand around to his lips, where he brushed a gentle kiss onto the golden back. Looking back up at Sam, Frodo smiled, eyes light and cheery as he made a deliberate effort relax and enjoy the attentions Sam was giving him. Diffidently, Frodo asked, "...have, _you,_ ever...?", cheeks pinking again, eyes bright.

Sam chuckled and leaned down to kiss Frodo lightly on the lips before answering, his voice matter-of-fact. "Well...I've been behind the hayrick a time or two." His green eyes met Frodo's blue again, hesitantly, earnest in their gaze. "But, nowt of importance, mind. Just littles growing up, being curious as tweens do, you understand?"

Frodo's mouth quirked, and a hint of laughter entered his eyes. "I understand," he said, gravely.

Sam smiled. They kissed again, lightly, caressingly, each savouring the other as tongues stroked, lips nipped and suckled gently, softly. Frodo's fingers clutched at Sam's shirt, sliding under the braces and digging nails into the rough cloth as they sought the warm skin it covered. Finally, Sam pulled back, looking into Frodo's eyes. "Do you...are you wanting me to take it off?" he asked, shyly.

Wordlessly, Frodo nodded, his breath going sharp at the thought of seeing, of touching, Sam's golden skin.

Sam levered himself up, off of Frodo, and slid off the side of the bed. Straightening, he locked eyes with Frodo and began to slip his braces off his shoulders. Dropping them, Sam pulled his shirt out of his breeches and slowly unbuttoned it, allowing tantalizing glimpses of his soft belly and strong chest to peek out, one button at a time. Frodo sat up, and his breath caught as he watched, half-afraid to believe it was real. He felt as if his whole world had changed, all in a heartbeat -- and it had changed and given him something he'd dearly wished for, but never dared to voice, even to himself in his most private of hearts. He felt as if he were in a waking dream, and he was terrified it would shatter and break if he breathed just wrong.

Sam peeled the shirt off broad, golden shoulders, letting it fall to the floor, and Frodo's heart gave a lurch. Sam smiled at the almost inaudible whimper that escaped, watching Frodo's knuckles go white on the coverlet. Stepping forward, he reached out and cupped Frodo's cheek, drawing him forward into a soft kiss, then climbed back into the bed to kneel next to Frodo, hands on his thighs, waiting patiently.

Frodo stared, eyes roaming over the broad expanse of golden skin, lingering on dusky nipples, flicking away, back, and away from the soft trail of hair that trickled down Sam's belly to disappear into his breeches. Fascinated, his gaze locked onto Sam's shoulders and he reached out, tentatively, to brush gentle fingers across the strong curve. "You have freckles...," he murmured.

Sam chuckled, answering simply, "Aye," and watched Frodo as the other hobbit continued to explore his body with wide eyes and gentle fingers. The simple wonder on Frodo's face made his heart both ache and tighten -- equally that one such as Frodo should be so innocent, and that it was _himself_ that was putting that look of wonder in Frodo's eyes.

Frodo stroked lightly down Sam's shoulder and arm, gaze intent and fascinated as his fingers traced patterns on the silken skin. Leaning closer, Frodo dragged his fingers back up, over Sam's shoulder and then down, curling across the strong chest, cupping under the curve of muscular breast and gently brushing the nipple of dusky rose. Sam's breath caught, drawing Frodo's attention back to the nipple, to watch in wonderment as the soft button wrinkled and drew up into a hard, tight little bud. His fingers caressed it, teased its firmness, tweaked at it gently as Frodo explored the phenomenon until a soft groan broke his concentration. Glancing up, Frodo saw Sam, lip caught between teeth and face tight, close his eyes and let out a shaky breath. "Sam...?" He began to withdraw his fingers from the intriguing bit of flesh, concerned.

Sam shook his head, opening his eyes quickly, "No, Frodo...!" Reaching out, Sam caught at Frodo's hand and pulled it back to his chest, smiling gently. "That feels...nice. Don't stop...?"

Frowning, Frodo searched Sam's eyes for the truth of the statement, then, reassured, reached out to the soft, neglected nipple. His fingers hovered over it, hesitated, reached to touch and then drew away again as he glanced into Sam's face once more, as if for permission. Sam nodded, eyes dark and intent. Frodo touched one finger to the small button tip of soft rosy flesh, and then smiled in wonder as the flesh responded to his touch by pushing out, into his finger, the skin around it pulling in and tightening into a hard, wrinkled bud. Frodo tested the hard nubbin, comparing it to the first in fascination, then tested them both in delight as he watched shivers of pleasure roll into and through Sam's body with each touch, Sam's breath catching and releasing in ragged rhythms, his eyes closing. He pinched harder, carefully, and watched as Sam's face contorted, breath snagging and hands clenching on strong thighs as a small groan slipped free.

Flattening his palms on the warm expanse of flesh, Frodo rubbed the strong muscles of Sam's chest, sliding his hands down Sam's sides to touch shyly at the waistband of his breeches, then flee bashfully back up Sam's belly and chest, slipping through the delightfully crinkly hair up to Sam's golden throat, and into the soft, gold-touched curls at the nape of his neck. Finger-combing the curls, Frodo teased the points of Sam's ears, smiling as Sam tipped his head slightly, first one way, then the other, pressing his ears into the caresses with a soft sigh. Lightly, Frodo stroked down the line of Sam's jaw, following the strong curve of bone to the sturdy chin, then trailed his fingertip back and down Sam's throat, pausing on the pulse beat pounding rapidly at the junction of throat and shoulder, pressing into the collarbone and lightly teasing the hollow right in the center. Sam's eyes opened, and gazed at him, glazed and dark. A faint smile teased across the red lips as Sam watched him, waiting.

Growing bolder under that look, Frodo looked down, eyes fixing hesitantly on the junction of Sam's thighs for the first time. His hands followed his gaze downward, pausing at the waistband of Sam's breeches then trailing lightly down over the fabric to delicately trace along the bulge pressing into the cloth from below. A shudder rocked Sam on his knees, and a deep groan was choked off before it was more than a breath. Frodo paused in his explorations, hands resting on the hard lump as his eyes flew up to Sam's face, watching anxiously as Sam swallowed hard, hands clenching on his thighs convulsively. After a breath, Frodo moved his fingers, watching Sam's face, and then, delighted at the reaction his touch received, he began to stroke up and down the length of the hard ridge with his fingers, barely scratching at the cloth with his nails.

Sam withstood this delightful torture as long as he could, agonized sweat beading on his chest and throat as he shook under the assault of sensation. Every thread to slide under Frodo's nails sent a shock of pleasure radiated through his body, rocketing up his spine to explode at the top of his head and rain bright sparks of languid good feeling back down all around him. He knotted his hands in the coverlet by his knees, to keep from reaching for Frodo, and clamped his teeth tightly around his groans of pleasure, for fear of alarming Frodo in his innocence. Finally, though, it was too much.

Frodo had begun to feel out the shape of Sam's cock under the cloth, stroking his fingers up and around the head of it, scratching and petting lightly as he attempted to discover the length and limits of the hard shape, when Sam suddenly released the coverlet and grabbed him by the shoulders, yanking him forward into a hard kiss. Sam plundered his mouth fiercely, crushing Frodo's slim body against his own before he pressed Frodo back into the pillows of the bed, stretching out next to him once more, still kissing him with intense concentration.

Frodo whimpered, arms sliding up Sam's slick body to grip his shoulders tightly, nails digging into the golden skin as Sam kissed him. Sam's hands began to stroke and caress, sliding up and inside the mussed nightrobe and down Frodo's bare sides, parting the robe as they went until Frodo was bare from the neck down. When he realized this, Frodo froze, stiffening under Sam, hands tightening in startled consternation in Sam's curls. Breaking the kiss, Frodo looked up at Sam's dark eyes. "Sam...?"

Sam pulled back and smiled tenderly down at Frodo. "Trust me. Trust your Sam. I'll take care of you."

After a moment, Frodo nodded. He took a deep breath and relaxed, eyes trusting as he looked up at Sam, lips parted and breath slightly ragged. Sam caressed Frodo's cheek lightly, smiling, then leaned in to kiss him again, using mouth and hands to gentle Frodo into pliability again, stroking Frodo's side and belly soothingly as he kissed and licked and nibbled his way along Frodo's jaw to his throat and ear. Nipping the curve of tendon just under Frodo's ear, Sam chuckled softly as Frodo jumped and shivered under him. He shifted slightly, leaning over Frodo slightly as he began to work his way down Frodo's throat with lips and teeth, one hand helping to support his weight and the other caressing its way up to Frodo's chest, circling lightly across the pale skin of Frodo's ribcage.

Frodo shivered at the almost-tickle that climbed up his side, the honey beginning to pool more heavily inside of him, choking off his breath as he panted under Sam's touch. Dragging a deep breath in through his nose, and then exhaling it through clenched teeth, he tried to remain still and silent under Sam, tried to focus on the path of Sam's fingers, and the reassuring crush of Sam's weight above him...and failed utterly as Sam's mouth came down on his nipple at the same time as his fingers found the other nipple and pinched lightly.

Frodo arched against the bed with a soft, gasping cry, half choked, and his fingers tightened harshly in the sun-kissed curls of Sam's head as Sam's teeth raked over his nipple once, twice, before Sam began to suckle on the pale pink flesh. Sam's hand imitated the motions of his mouth with Frodo's other nipple, twisting and plucking at it gently, alternating with sharp pinches in time to the rough rake of teeth. Frodo choked and squirmed against the bed, fighting to get away from the sensations, fighting to press into them, fighting himself and the reactions the new feelings sparked throughout his body. Each pinch and rake sent balls of deliciously cold fire racing down his legs to his toes, curling them sharply and yanking his knees up and out, helplessly flexing him against the bed. The honey in his belly heated and began to whirl and dissolve into fingers of liquid fire that rocked in waves from Frodo's nipples down to his groin and back again, carrying his hips up and off the bed with each surge of sensation.

Frodo choked as his lungs suddenly began to labour for breath, fighting against the need to cry out, his teeth clenched tightly, biting back the cries and shouts that tried to surge up and out of him. His vision began to go grey, then white, and the room began to spin around him as his lungs brought in more air than they could use, and yet desperately sucked in still more air.

His dizzy whimper brought Sam's head up and he reached up and caressed Frodo's head gently. "Shhh...shhhh," Sam soothed, grinning even as his free hand continued to torture Frodo's nipple with exquisite pleasure. "There, now, me dear, there, now. No need to hold back...there ain't none but us here...." He scooted up slightly, bending to bite at Frodo's neck, sinking his teeth gently into the thick tendon just where it joined Frodo's shoulder, just above the red passion mark he'd left earlier.

Frodo's breath caught on a jagged edge of the honey'd pleasure building within him, and tore free on a ragged cry, half strangled and gasping as he flexed into Sam's weight, twisting and arching helplessly. "S-sam...!" he choked, fingers pulling hard on the curls twisted around them.

Sam winced and grinned, sliding slowly back down to his position next to Frodo, licking and nibbling his way back down to the cold, wet nipple, taking it in his warm mouth and lathing it with a hot tongue. Fiercely, he raked it again with his teeth, making Frodo cry out above him and arch helplessly into the pinching fingers of Sam's teasing hand. Frodo whimpered and shuddered, twisting against the bed, shoulders lifting enough for Sam to slip his free hand under the near one and cuddle Frodo tightly to himself as he suckled.

Distracting Frodo with hard sucks and gentle rakes of his teeth, Sam slowly stroked and caressed his way down Frodo's far side, hand pausing on Frodo's hip for a moment before sliding down to stroke Frodo's inner thighs, gently urging his legs apart with soft touches up the inner crease of thigh and groin. Light finger touches danced across Frodo's lower belly, following a sparse hairline and sliding down over one hip and then the other made Frodo's hips lift helplessly, seeking the elusive contact that roamed over hips and thighs and belly, electrifying the skin that it never touched.

Sam teased and flicked his fingers close, then away, close, then away, playing Frodo's reactions, building the exquisite frustration as he shifted from nipple to nipple, using his weight to hold Frodo to the bed as he teased. Frodo's hands alternately shoved at Sam's shoulders, then buried themselves in his knotted curls, pulling Sam harder into his chest as he flexed beneath him. Frodo's legs spread widely, bracing against the bed as he tried to _push_ into Sam's touch, then whimpering as the touch eluded him.

Sam raised his head, flinching as Frodo yanked on his hair, and gazed up at Frodo's face, smiling faintly. Slowly, deliberately, Sam bent and _bit_ Frodo's nipple, catching it firmly between his teeth. At the same moment, as Frodo cried out and arched into it, his hand closed tightly around the ivory shaft of Frodo's cock. As Frodo flexed, frantically bending into the bite, his hips thrust helplessly upward, forcing his cock into the tight sheath of Sam's fingers.

Pleasure sharp enough to slice cut through Frodo, shattering him into pieces and tying his muscles so tight he could barely move. His hips jerked helplessly, forcing the shaft of his cock through Sam's fingers again and again, small, sharp, frantic motions that ripped into his belly and heart with aching ferocity. He choked, then choked again, a faint whimper finally forcing its way past the fragments of pleasure caught in his throat, easing into a low keening of frustrated need.

At the sound of distress, Sam instantly released the nipple from his teeth and eased his grip on the burning shaft of flesh sliding between his fingers. Curling his thumb up and over the pale pink crown, he let his hand ride with the motion of Frodo's hips, shortening the involuntary stroke of Frodo's thrusts. Sliding up to kiss Frodo's mouth, Sam whispered softly, smiling, "Be easy, easy, me dear. Your Sam is here. Let go, Frodo, me dear, let it happen. I'll let nowt happen to you, you're safe, here with me. Just relax and let go, me dear."

Frodo took a deep, shuddering breath, and his spine went limp, dropping him back onto the bed for a moment before the frantic thrust of his hips took over again and jerked a cry from his throat. A sudden hot wetness covered Sam's hand, slicking it, and his thumb slid free, letting Frodo's cock slide its full length into the sheath of Sam's fist, ripping another wailing cry from Frodo as he jerked again, eyes closing tightly and hands jerking on Sam's curls as more wetness poured from him in hot, spurting bursts. Sam closed his eyes and shuddered, choking back a soft gasp of his own at the sight, the scent, the feel of it. Easing his grip on Frodo's hot flesh as he felt it soften, Sam pulled his hand away and wiped it on his pants with a slight grimace, then grinned, leaning close to kiss Frodo gently, wrapping his arms tightly around the trembling frame.

"There, me dear, there...shhhh, shhhh...your Sam has got you. Just you relax, you are safe, shhhhh...."

Frodo quivered and shook in the aftershocks of the climax, the honey'd pleasure pouring out to cover him from head to toe in warm, sweet, sticky languor, weighting his limbs and soothing rigour-tight muscles into fluid limpness. Finally he relaxed enough unknot his fingers from Sam's hair and to curl indolently into Sam's heat, wrapping his arms tightly around Sam's waist as he sighed, slowly, languidly savouring the warm, golden glow filling him. After a few moments, Sam whispered, "Frodo, me dear...I need to put out the candle. I'll be right back...." and pulled away, slipping out of the bed and leaving a chill hole in the warmth.

Frodo shivered and curled up onto himself, hugging the pillow Sam had been laying on and listened to the rustling as Sam moved about the room. After a moment, Sam's hands were stroking his skin, gently urging him to lie back in the bed. A soft, warm and damp cloth wiped him down, and then there was a rustle of drapes being tied closed, followed by the sudden darkness of a candle being extinguished. Frodo murmured sleepily in protest as strong hands tugged the blankets out from under him, and stripped the forgotten nightrobe the rest of the way off his naked body. Finally, Sam's warm, comforting body slid into the bed next to him, and Frodo curled contentedly around it. He had a brief moment of surprise as his legs met and tangled with naked legs before he rested his head on the curve of Sam's ribs with a blissful sigh.

Strong arms came down around him, holding him secure as he began to drift into true sleep. Gentle lips brushed his hair and softly, Sam's voice rumbled into his ear, backed by the strong, soothing heartbeat, "Happy Lover's Day, Mister Frodo....."

 

End


End file.
